


Accidents Can Happen

by CrossbowDontMiss



Series: Crash [1]
Category: Walking Dead, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mostly just Daryl on this one, Rickyl in later installments, original character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:37:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrossbowDontMiss/pseuds/CrossbowDontMiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the things that can happen to somone in the world these days, the last thing Daryl saw coming was a car crash. But the world's got a way of surprising people, and not in a good way, and after the unexpected happens, he's got to figure out a way to survive it and get back home. Maybe not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Point A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically part one of what's supposed to be a two-part (may end up being three - I dunno) series. It will be Rickyl down the line, established relationship, with a dynamic that's pretty similar to the one in the This...Thing Series. If you're not too keen on it, you might not want to read this. Other'n that, hope you enjoy!

Back before the world went to hell, Daryl drove a 1973 Ford F-250. It had shit gas mileage – got about an inch to the gallon with the tail gate down – and a suspension looser than a hooker's lips, but that thing'd been in his family since before Daryl was born. Probably the only good thing he ever got from his old man, and shit, he loved that truck.

It was easy back then, seein' those foreign pieces of plastic shit on the road, or one of those hybrid numbers, and ragging on them for being pussy cars. Anything with less than a roaring V8 and standard fourwheel drive wasn't a man's car back then, and there wasn't anybody could convince Daryl otherwise.

But then the damn apocalypse happened. And much of a pain in the ass as keeping that truck full was before, it turned damn near impossible when all the gas stations shut down. Besides that, he didn't have long days off with nothin' better to do than fix whatever part was broke on her that week.

It's all about using what they got, nowadays. Whatever cars are there and can run on whatever gas and oil and parts they got on hand, those're the ones they drive. And if that means Daryl's going out in a little 1.8 liter, front-wheel drive wimp-bunny mobile, well then he's gonna do it, and just so long as it gets them from Point A to B with no trouble, he'll be happy to do it.

Could be worse, anyhow. Could be a Prius.

"About how long we got?" asks the guy beside him in the car. Joel's his name. Daryl found him on a run out a couple weeks ago; him and his wife Ellen were hiding out in an old pawn shop, near to starving. Smart as it was to shack up in some place with plenty of guns and ammo, turns out you can't eat bullets.

Not more'n once, anyhow.

With a good-sized herd passing the prison, Joel's all they could spare, and Daryl's the only one that knows the area well enough to head the trip, so it's just the two of them looking to fill the list they sent out with them of shit the prison needs. It ain't too bad, but there's some essentials they can't go much longer without. Couple people needing medicine – the diabetics and the asthmatics – they're running low on, so they got to do it.

And hell, Daryl'd almost rather it was just a couple of them, anyhow. They're out farther than they usually go, on past Woodbury and headed towards Fayetteville, and Daryl's not real sure what they're headed into. Small means mobile, means if shit hits the fan, it's easier to book it out and not have to worry about keeping a whole big group together. Run like this, that's the way to play it.

So far, though, they ain't had any trouble. They headed out at dawn, made the forty-mile drive in a little under an hour on the back roads, and cleared the place out, at least what was left of it. It'd already been picked over pretty good, but they got what they needed, and now they got it loaded up in bags in the back seat, and they've been back on the road for ten or so miles by Daryl's estimation.

"Comin' up on Bobwhite Bridge," he says. They've been driving along the creek for a while, now, and the bridge intersects the road just up ahead. "Maybe thirty minutes, give'r take." Joel's the one with the goddamn map, anyhow. Man's handy enough, and he knew what they were looking for in the pharmacy better'n Daryl did, but he just ain't got much in the way of common sense.

The man nods, playing around with some sort of little figurine he picked up for his wife. Called it a dreamsicle or something, said she used to collect them. "So, we ought to make it back before noon?"

"Ought to."

"Think we'll have much trouble getting back in, all those walkers passing through?"

Daryl shrugs. He's not real big on speculation; never has been. Way he sees it, what's there is there, and whichever way it turns out, he'll deal with it when they get to it. No sense worrying about something that ain't a problem yet.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Joel look over at him. He's a big guy, but he's got the loose-skinned look of somebody that used to be bigger, with brown hair that's thinning out on top and a full beard. Hard to say if he's older and younger than Daryl is. Might be about the same. He's definitely a hell of a lot chattier, though.

"You don't talk much, do you?" he asks, and even if Daryl meant to answer – he didn't – he wouldn't 'a gotten the chance. "Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just that I was noticing, and—"

Daryl never finds out what Joel was about to say, because right then, right before he gets to say the rest, they get hit by a train. Least, that's what it feels like for the split second there is before the world goes black, and Daryl doesn't feel anything at all.


	2. Two Left

When Daryl comes to, he's not real sure what's going on. He's not real sure where he is or why he's there or how he got there. All he knows is that he's staring through a hole where he's pretty sure the windshield used to be, and his ears are ringing like some asshole just fired a canon on either side of his head.

He blinks. His eyes are burning, especially his left one, and it feels like there's something wet running down the side of his face. He tries to wipe at it, except he realizes with a flash of pain that nearly makes his vision go right back to black again, that he can't move that arm.

His heart's pounding in his ears, or else maybe someplace in his throat. He knows it can't be both places at once, but it sure as hell don't feel like it's where it's supposed to be. Don't help that he can't seem to catch his breath, like somebody's taking a ballpoint hammer to his chest every time he tries.

And that's when it hits him.

The car crashed. Passing the bridge, something must've barreled straight into them. T-Boned the passenger side. And if he wasn't hurting so bad and so far out of it, he might've laughed, because this is the goddamn zombie apocalypse, and he was just in a car accident.

He doesn't, though, because he  _is_  hurting pretty damn bad, and trying to think enough to come up with something like that takes a lot more doing than he's able to do. But more than that, the realization sets off a big jumble of other thoughts that his head's too scrambled to sort through and put into any sort of order, so he gets all of them more or less at the same damn time.

They got hit by another car. There were people in that car. There was somebody else in this one. Joel, who talked too much but seemed like a decent guy that picked up fat angels for his wife of thirteen or fifteen years – he can't remember which, and to be honest, he doesn't really try that hard. Because just as it dawns on him to look over and check on Joel, see if he made it out okay, it dawns on him he doesn't have to.

He hears it: that raspy death-rattle-sounding growl he'd know in his sleep, and on instinct and reflex, he turns his head.

Any fog that mighta still been hanging around his brain clears up real quick the moment he goes face to face with the snapping jaws of a walker. And that's what it is. All it is. All it can be, because it can't be the fella he risked his life with, the one that had his back. Thinking like that's a good way to get dead or crazy, one, and Daryl's not real keen on either.

The next few seconds are a mad scramble. The force of the hit knocked his door loose, and Daryl's falling back through it quick as he can. It ain't supposed to be graceful – not much place for grace when the only thing standing between him and a walker's a two-inch strap of nylon – but he don't mean to fall like he does, neither. His pants leg snags, and there's another flash of pain that registers only as long as it takes for him to hit the asphalt. Hard.

This time, his vision does go black.

He might pass out. He might not. All he knows is that there's the familiar weight of his crossbow in his lap, and soon as his vision clears enough, he's rolling onto his back. The landing sucks, but whatever he did, his arm's working again. Hurts like a bitch, but he's got his blood pumping and his heart racing, and he grits his teeth through the pain to draw his back his crossbow and load a bolt.

The walker's coming across the console, now. If Daryl'd taken any longer coming around or getting out, those gnashing teeth woulda been tearing their way through his meat, no two ways about it, and it don't look like the seatbelt's gonna hold him much longer.

He fires.

The bolt lands more or less where Daryl's aiming – he can't really hold the crossbow right, but he's used to shit shots – and the walker slumps forward with a bolt through its skull. Dead. For keeps this time, and Daryl means to let out a sigh, but ends up rolling over and throwing up instead.

His head's pounding; only thing he can really compare the feeling to's the time Andrea clipped him in the side of the head, and even that don't seem to do it justice. He's dizzy, and when his gut's done turning itself out, he tries to push himself up, but nearly ends up falling down in it again.

Of course, how much of that's to do with his head, and how much's to do with the fresh-made cut down the side of his right thigh's up in the air. He tries not to think about it too much as he grabs the bandana from his back pocket, bites his lip, and ties it off around the wound. And hell, if he lets out a few choice words through his gritted teeth, who's to blame him?

He's got to get moving, though; he knows he does. Sound of that crash probably drew walkers for miles, and he don't want to be there when they come a'knockin'. And if that don't do the trick, the scream he hears coming from the other side of the car'll probably do it.

It's a woman. That much he can tell just from hearing it, and it's coming from the Subaru more or less jutting out the right side of the Civic. It's all the incentive Daryl needs to try getting to his feet again, and this time, it goes better than the last. Grabbing his make-shift quiver out of the seat, and the one bolt out of the walker's head, he makes for the other side of the car quick as he can.

The sight he sees ain't a good one, and it don't get any better the closer he gets. There's a hole in the windshield on the driver side, all bloodied up with bits of flesh and fabric clinging to the jagged ends. Looks like somebody went through it. If he had to take a guess, he'd put money on the poor dead bastard lying on the hood.

Daryl's on the other side, though, the passenger side, and that's where the woman is.

"Help," she calls out. She's crying, her voice shaky and desperate, and it makes Daryl's chest hurt in a different way. "Please, help."

And Daryl means to. He's not real sure what all he can do for her – he's no paramedic or nothing, but he thinks the blood running out of her mouth and her sheet white skin are probably pretty bad signs – but he ain't about to just leave her there without even trying.

"Alright," he says. "Alright, I got you, but you gotta try and keep quiet." He doesn't tell her why; either she already knows or she don't, but either way, she's scared enough. He figures he probably ought to say something else, something reassuring or comforting about how it's gonna be okay, but he's never been real good at that, and he don't know if it'd be the truth. He kinda doubts it.

He'll do what he can, though. At least, he plans to, except when he goes to wrench her door open, she grabs his wrist. It stops him, and he looks down at her small, bloody hand on his arm, then back up at her.

"The hell're you doin'?" he bites out, maybe harsher than he should. He don't got time to keep stopping, though. He can't say for sure how long he was out, but he knows, depending on how close a herd was, it could be on them any second, now.

"I'm sorry," the woman says, still choked up with what he kind of hopes're just tears. "We were driving so fast, we didn't think there—there would be anyone on the road." She sounds like she can't catch her breath, neither, and she keeps swallowing, like she's fixing to be sick. He's not sure what to make of it until she gags and coughs, and blood comes spilling out over her lips like a red river. A closer look inside the car, and he sees there's something sticking out of her belly, like a shard of something metal. The whole front's crunched up from the impact, so there's no telling where it came from, but it don't look good.

No, he ain't a paramedic, and he ain't Hershel, but he knows she's a goner.

She seems to know it, too. Has that look in her eyes Daryl wishes he didn't know as well as he does: the look of somebody that knows they're going to die, and knows there's nothing can be done to stop it. She looks scared. Terrified. But there's something else, too, something like determination.

"My daughter," she says, and that's all Daryl needs to hear to get it. Family's everything, and a glance in the back seat shows the woman's got more to hers than the man lying dead on the hood. "Please, tell me she's alive."

She lets go of his arm, then, and it's pretty clear why. Daryl doesn't hesitate, neither. Soon as she lets him go, he's running around to the back seat, nearly ripping the door off what's left of its hinges trying to get it open. And it don't matter that his leg's on fire where he snagged it, or that his head's pounding, or that there's a pretty good chance there's a herd of walkers coming to gnaw on them.

All that matters is that he feels a pulse. It's light against his fingers, quick, but it's there, and that's the first good news in all this. "She's alive," he gets to say, and ain't that a relief.

The woman lets out a quiet sob. "Oh, thank God," she whispers. Like that's the only thing she needed to hear. Like even dying ain't so bad if her little girl lives. "Take her."

Daryl's already reaching in, unbuckling the seatbelt and getting ready to pull the unconscious little girl – she looks to be maybe eleven or twelve…looks like Sophie's age, he thinks with a wince that's got nothing to do with his injuries – but he pauses. "Come again?"

"Take her, please Wherever you're going, take her with you. Get her someplace safe." She takes in a shuddering breath, and he can see in the rearview mirror the look of damn near agony on her face. It's hard, he reckons, asking some stranger to take her baby away, but they both know she ain't got another option.

And that's why he don't even have to think about it. He nods, which in hindsight was a piss poor idea, because his brain feels like it's bruised, and moving his head don't help. But it's still better than trying to find the words to say what the woman probably needs to hear.

He's careful, lifting the little girl out of the car. It's tricky, but he manages to get her balanced on his hip, so he's still got one arm free as he walks back around to the side.

"Here," the woman says, and she's holding something out to him. A little stuffed bear. "It's her favorite. B.B."

Daryl manages a weak smile. "Like the gun?" And he's rewarded with a laugh, shaky and teary-eyed as it is.

"Sarah couldn't say 'bear' when she was little – she called him B.B."

It's just one of those things: it don't matter much, but at the same time, it does. It's something else for the woman to think about instead of dying, and that's gotta be worth the ten seconds extra it takes. "That her name?" he asks, taking the bear from her shaking hands and tucking it in his belt. "Sarah?"

The woman nods. "Sarah Belle Batewood." She reaches out her hand to brush the girl's hair, but that seems to be the last she's got, because she drops it soon after. "Promise you'll protect her. Please, promise me that." It's a last request; they both know it, but she looks content enough when he nods. "Thank you," she says, and then, "you should go."

This is the hard part. Daryl knows she ain't gonna make it. She's paler than before. Weaker. Bleeding out into her lap and God only knows where else. Even if he could get her back to the prison in time, there wouldn't be anything they could do to help. "You gonna be alright by yourself?" What he means is 'you alright to die alone, or you want help?' but it don't seem right to say it.

Instead of an answer, what he gets is the cock of a hammer, and a look inside shows she's holding a revolver in her other hand. A lefty. He files it away under all the random bits and pieces he knows about people dead and gone, right alongside Joel the decent enough guy that liked to talk and loved his wife.

"Two left," she tells him. "Just take her and go. We'll be alright."

He don't think it's coincidence that she looks out the windshield when she says  _we_. She knows her husband's coming back, and she's the one wants to take care of it. He respects that. He respects the hell out of that. She and her husband'll be seen to, he don't doubt that. And he'll do what he can for their little girl.

He hears a soft sniff, and he tears his eyes from the corpse on the hood and looks back at the woman. She’s not looking at him, though; she’s look at her daughter. “Tell her we love her,” she says. It sounds like a request. It don’t need to be, but he can’t quite bring himself to tell her that. He’s spent too much time there already. He needs to move.

So, instead, he gives her one more nod, then turns and leaves.


	3. Long Walk Home

Before he leaves the bridge, he makes a quick stop by the Civic. He lays little Sarah out on the ground, carefully as he can, so he can grab the bags from the back. He can't leave them, or else all this would've been for nothing.

He can only manage to shoulder two, but he empties out the third and crams most of what was in it into the two he's got, so at least he's not leaving anything behind. At least not anything he can carry.

As an afterthought somewhere along those lines, he climbs through the front again, and after some searching, turns up the fat little angel Joel grabbed for his wife. It won't be much comfort when her husband ain't the one giving it to her, but if he can't bring Joel back to her, least he can do is this.

He tucks it in his pocket, along with Joel's wedding ring, then loads his quiver, then his crossbow, until he's not real sure his shoulders can bear anything else. The rest of him'll manage, though, at least with one more item, and he's fixing to pick up the little girl when he notices her face is all screwed up. Careful of all the extra weight on his back, he squats, but ends up taking a knee when it hurts his thigh.

She's coming to. The little whimper's proof of it, but he don't have time to wait around for her to come the rest of the way, so he lifts her up into his arms. It takes a second to get everything positioned well enough for him to walk, and he's got both his arms full trying to carry her instead of just the one, but he moves quick anyway. He don't want to be there when the cavalry arrives.

He makes it off the bridge and maybe a quarter-mile down the road when Sarah comes around, but he doesn't stop, even when she stars crying.

"Shh," he hushes her as he goes. "S'alright." It's a lot easier to say it to someone that's not about to die. At least, he hopes she ain't. He don't know. He can't know, and he don't have time to check just yet, so he's just gotta hope.

"Where's my mommy?" she whimpers. "My tummy hurts. I want my mommy."

"I know," he says. He's going for soft, but it comes out gruff and strained. She's squirming around, and he's having trouble keeping hold of her. "She ain't here, sweetheart. She ain't comin'. Asked me to look after you."

Unfortunately, that doesn't settle her any. "Why? Where is she?"

Daryl tries to think of some way to tell her that's not gonna break her heart, but before he can muster up anything, the air's pierced by the crack of a gunshot, and Sarah lets out a cry that's equal parts startled and distraught. He knows she knows what happened, then, and she damn near breaks down in his arms, tucking herself real close and bawling. Stranger's better than nothing to a terrified child, he guesses, and he tries to live up to that when the second shot goes off, holding her closer and turning her head against his chest.

"Shh, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, but you gotta keep quiet for me, sweetheart." Or else they'll be joining her folks sooner rather than later. They're the walking wounded, and if they get caught up by a herd, Daryl ain't gonna be able to do much about it. Not with a busted shoulder, a bum leg, and about a buck and a half extra weighing him down.

He don't say that, though. It's just like with her mom: she's scared enough, shaking and cold in his arms, without him adding anything else to it. He wishes there was more he could do for her. Wishes he'd had the sense to grab a blanket before he ditched the Civic, except it's mid-Summer in Georgia, nearing the heat of the day. She shouldn't be cold, so he couldn't have known. That's what he tells himself, at least; he's not real sure he's bying it, though. "S'gonna be alright. I won't let nothin' happen to you." He gave that woman his word, and he means to keep it if it kills him. "Just keep quiet for me. Just keep quiet."

And she does. Between his shirt and her bottom lip, the sound's barely audible. She still whimpers, little whines slipping from her when he jars her, so he tries not to. There's just not a whole hell of a lot he can do. Just this. Just keeping her alive. Just keeping moving.

Eventually, though, he has to stop.

He's been walking for miles, now. It's been hours since he left the bridge, hours without rest, and he can't keep on anymore. His toes are numb in his right leg, and he lost feeling in his left hand about five miles back. He pushed through it, though. Had to. But now they're well away from the bridge, and Daryl's vision's starting to blur. Better to stop and take a breather now than to pass out later; he can't afford the risk.

Just a few minutes – that's all he needs. Time enough to get a drink, to re-tie the bandage on his leg, maybe give his shoulder a break. Just a few minutes.

That's the plan, at least. But then, since when've things gone according to plan for them?

He knows he should've known better the second he sits Sarah down. She dozed off not long after she woke up the first time, and she's stirred a few times since, but not for very long. And aside from a few complaints here and there, she hasn't really spoken.

She's limp when he lays her down, head lolling against the tree Daryl props her up again. Her skin's sheet white, a stark contrast to the red of Daryl's. The sum's brutal, now, and he can feel his own burning under it. Make's the chill on her stand out all the more.

He's getting nervous. This ain't right, ain't good. He's so used to looking out for fevers from the bites, it's hard to remember cold skin's bad, too, but now that's all he can think about.

It don't get any better when she starts making these pitiful little noises. Her arms, lying beside her on the ground, snake around her belly and curl tight, and Daryl feels a knot in his own gut clench.

"Let me get a look atcha," he says. This is the first chance he's gotten, now that they're back out of the red zone, and closer to home turf; he couldn't have afforded to stop sooner, and he knows it.

Still, he can't help but wish he had. Especially once he gets her arms pulled away and her shirt rolled up a little.

It's bad.

There's a big bruise on her left side, about the size of Daryl's fist and a dark, angry shade of purple. It ain't the look of a usual bruise, and he knows it ain't her ribs, because he can count every one of them, and the bruises is just under them. He checks just in case, though, and winces when she cries out, this high-pitched, shrill, pained sound that makes his stomach flip.

"Sorry," he says, and pulls her shirt back down before she can see, because he don't want her to see it. He's not real sure what it is, but he knows it scares him, so he can't hardly imagine what it'd do to her. "Sorry, sweetheart. Ain't gonna do it again."

As he speaks, he's pushing himself to his feet. That cry was like a dinner bell, and even if it weren't, that bruise and everything else about her has Daryl thinking he ain't got time to waste.

He tries to be gentle as he lifts her back up, once he's got everything else loaded back up, but she still cries louder, even as he tries to hush her.

"I want to go home," she sobs into his shirt.

"Me too." And he's not real sure how, but he's gonna get them there. It ain't just his life depending on it, after all. It's Sarah's. It's the people in the prison counting on the medicine, and in a way, it's Sarah's mom. She trusted him to take care of her little girl, and it don't matter if he knew her for five minutes or five years, that ain't something he's taking lightly.

No, he'll get them home. Get them back to the prison, and he ain't wasting any more time doing it. No more breaks, no more pauses. There's nothing he can do to fix whatever's wrong with Sarah, but he can do his damndest to get her to somebody that can that much faster.

He ends up changing course to do it. The roads are easier, but they aren't direct. They twist and turn around the woods and hills, and that eats up time. Cutting through the woods is faster. Harder, but faster, and he needs every second he can get. Too many people have died already; he's not losing another. He won't let it happen.

So, he starts walking again. Just like before, it don't matter that he's hurt. That he hasn't had a drink in hours, or that his skin feels like it's blistering under the sun. It don't matter that the hundred or so pounds he's toting are starting to feel more like two hundred. None of it matters as he starts into the woods, because none of it compares to the people he's got counting on him. They're what matters. Sarah, her mom, those people back at the prison that need the medicine he's carrying…the ones that aren't just relying on him, now, but have been all this time. Carol, Hershel, Glen, Maggie…

Rick.

No, he's not about to let some freak accident make him let all those people down. He owes them all something; some of them, a lot. One, nearly everything. Accidents can happen, but he ain't gonna let anything else go wrong. And it's with that in mind that he pushes ahead, grits his teeth and bears it, because he ain't got a choice.

It's a long walk home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for this installment. Already working on the second bit, so it shouldn't be long before we find out what happens on the "long walk home."

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments and kudos make my day. Takes a few seconds to leave either, but it means a whole lot to me.


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